


the truth in the past (& the promise of the future)

by girl412



Series: assigned ineffable at birth [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Discussion of Family, Family Feels, Gen, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), I don't know how to tag this, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, he/him pronouns for crowley again, or at least something like that, or at least: the first half, this is it gang this is the one everybody's been waiting for, this one picks up exactly where the last one left off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 17:35:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21324025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl412/pseuds/girl412
Summary: Crowley tells Warlock everything he needs to know.Warlock makes choices based off these things.
Relationships: Crowley & Warlock Dowling, background Aziraphale/Crowley - Relationship
Series: assigned ineffable at birth [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1469717
Comments: 34
Kudos: 367





	the truth in the past (& the promise of the future)

**Author's Note:**

> *jazz hands*
> 
> just realised that this is a LOT more tv-canon than i'd thought! i just wanted Crowley and Aziraphale to be important parental figures in Warlock's life until he turns 11, as opposed to... 6? or whatever the age in the book is. 
> 
> there's light angst in this one, but not much. also a lot of hand holding, because honestly? holding parents' & grandparents' hands can be so comforting, and i wanted to give Warlock that. 
> 
> again: sorry for lack of Aziraphale!!! i will make up for it in later installments <3

Crowley’s breath goes all out of him when he sees the picture. “Oh,” he says intelligently, his grasp on Warlock’s shoulders tightening ever so slightly as he gently and subconsciously pulls the young boy closer. “Warlock, my darling boy, this is lovely. Do you – ?”

And that’s where words fail him. _Do you really love me that much? _he wants to say. What Aziraphale has been trying to tell him finally sinks in. Warlock really does love him that much. It’s unconditional, and it’s overflowing, and –

“Do I?” Warlock prompts cautiously.

Crowley moves back, puts one of his hands in his pocket and gently pulls out a beige handkerchief that’s embroidered with snakes and roses, and carefully wipes the tears off his face. It’s highly likely that the handkerchief hadn’t existed until the exact moment that Crowley had reached for it, but that’s neither here nor there.

“I can sense the love in this,” Crowley explains, and he means it very literally, but of course Warlock doesn’t know that yet. There’s time for explanations later. “And you’ve made me look so beautiful and kind. Is that really how you see me?”

The last bit is slightly mumbled, but Warlock catches it anyway.

“I see you as you are,” he offers. “Now, uh. I think I’m going to eat the stuff you got me?”

Crowley nods, gestures to the paper bag, and Warlock goes and gets it, and comes back, standing next to Crowley and watching him stare at the painting. Both of them are silent, but Crowley knows that Warlock is waiting, giving him space to process.

“Thank you,” Crowley says softly, eventually, once Warlock’s done eating.

Warlock hums in acknowledgement.

“So,” Crowley says, giving himself five seconds to collect himself and no more, “what do you want to do before we get lunch?”

-

“And like, that’s my favourite thing about coding, not that I’m much good at it,” Warlock continues. “I mean, it’s just instructions, end of the day, but you can make things come to life. I’d love to animate something that’s meaningful to people, you know?”

“You did love video games,” Crowley agrees, as they amble purposelessly thorough the streets. “And you’ve got quite a penchant for art as well, so if you do get into animation I think you’d make really phenomenal work.”

“Do you really think so?” Warlock asks, softly. He can’t remember the last time a grown-up actually listened to him talk about his ambitions _and _encouraged him, and the fact that it’s his Nanny of all people next to him somehow makes the encounter that much more valuable. “You’re not just saying this to make me feel better?”

Crowley scoffs. “Do I look like Brother Francis to you? If I thought you were doomed to fail, I’d tell you upfront, hellspawn. I really do mean it.”

“Thank you,” Warlock says. “Where do you want to go next?”

“It’s nearing 12, so we could go get lunch now,” Crowley says, and is it just Warlock or does he look nervous? “I, uh. Have some things to tell you. Some truths to clarify. And if you still want to spend time with me after, we can do something you’d like after that. Go to an arcade or something.”

“What could you have done that would be so horrible that I’d not want to spend time with you?” Warlock asks. It’s mostly rhetorical, but Crowley’s face falls ever so minutely, and he looks guilty, shifty somehow.

“We’ll discuss that over lunch,” Crowley says.

Warlock takes his hand, just because he can. Neither of his parents hold his hand in public – wouldn’t look very good for their image, or something like that. Then again, the way his parents love him has always felt conditional.

Crowley’s hand tightens on his, naturally. Warlock tells him about a café he likes, and Crowley beckons for a cab.

In the cab, Warlock lets himself relax, lets his head rest on Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley’s arm, carefully and cautiously, as if testing out a boundary, holds him close, cradling him to his chest.

“This alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Warlock murmurs. “Thank you, Nanny.”

“Anytime, sugar,” Crowley says, and Warlock can hear the smile in his voice. It _will _be alright. He’ll do whatever he can to ensure that.

-

They both order, and Warlock notes that Crowley isn’t having much.

“Nanny,” he says, trying to be as sensitive as he can over it. “Are you sure you won’t get hungry later? A coffee and a croissant aren’t much.”

The look Crowley gives him is fond. “Don’t worry about me, darling. I’ll explain everything, and then you’ll understand.”

Warlock hums, trying not to worry about Crowley and generally failing.

“Oh, no, it’s nothing as severe as that,” Crowley says, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. He reaches out across the table and takes Warlock’s hand, and Warlock grips it tightly. “Listen, you remember all the things Brother Francis and I used to tell you? About the Apocalypse, and your ability to change reality?”

“Yeah,” Warlock says, smiling. “Those were some really intense self-growth metaphors, you know.”

“That’s the thing, plum,” Crowley says. “They weren’t metaphors.”

Warlock waits for Crowley to say _sike_, or whatever his generation’s equivalent of that is, but no such thing seems to be forthcoming.

“Uh,” Warlock says. “The world hasn’t ended yet, so could you maybe, explain?”

“I’ll begin at the beginning,” Crowley says, very gently.

-

“And we weren’t sure, you know, if you’d want us in your life, even,” Crowley says. “I mean, both me and Aziraphale wanted to stay in touch, but we didn’t want to interfere. I’m really glad that you reached out, and uh. If you want to stay in touch, that’d be. Er. Pretty nice.”

Warlock frowns thoughtfully. “So you’re saying, the whole thing with Hastur LaVista was actually, like. A Duke of Hell trying to get me to end the world?”

“Yes,” Crowley says. “And he told me that you told him that he smells like poo, and can I just say, I have _never _been prouder.”

Warlock smiles. “Well, it was true.”

Crowley smiles back.

By this time they’re both done with their appetizers, and Warlock’s eating a large burger with gusto while Crowley sips at his coffee and watches him eat.

Warlock’s smile fades, all of a sudden. He carefully puts the burger down, wipes some ketchup off his fingers.

“Does this mean,” he says, and Crowley can hear his voice shaking a little, even though it’s apparent that he’s doing his best to ensure that it can’t be heard. “that, uh. I’m the wrong boy? That it was a mistake, that you and Aziraphale,” he pauses here, as if testing out the weight of the foreign name in his mouth, and then goes on, “came to supervise me?”

_Don’t fuck this up, _Crowley thinks to himself. He looks at the child sitting across him, who is glumly staring at his meal and trying not to let on that he’s glum. Unsurprisingly, Crowley feels a shot of something similar to possessiveness, but a lot kinder. An almost maternal instinct, as if Warlock is his own child. He takes a little breath, thinks of what Aziraphale would say.

“Well, you’re certainly not the Antichrist,” Crowley says. “But I wouldn’t say that any of this was a mistake, and I certainly wouldn’t say that you’re the wrong boy. Aziraphale talks about the ineffability of God’s plan a lot, and it gets on my nerves all the time, but this is a little like that. It happened the way it was meant to happen, that’s how I feel about it. When we met Adam,” Crowley pauses, takes a shaky breath and a sip of coffee, and then goes on, “well, when we met him… he was incredibly well-adjusted, you know. He had friends, regular human parents, a really good support system… he didn’t need me or Aziraphale. Not the way _you _needed us. I’m not being presumptuous in assuming that, am I?”

“No, you’re not,” Warlock says quietly. “My parents are rubbish.”

“They don’t mean to be,” Crowley offers. “But I know that doesn’t really help, I’m sorry that they’re like that. You deserve better.”

“I had you and Brother Francis until I turned 11, didn’t I?” Warlock asks, softly, more to himself than to Crowley.

“You certainly did,” Crowley says, as gently as he can. “And our lives were so much better with you in them, too. Aziraphale and I both love you very much.”

Warlock looks up at him, nods. Then takes a bite of his burger, and goes back to eating.

Crowley gulps down the coffee.

“You know, you’re taking this relatively well,” he offers after a moment of silence.

“Am I really?” Warlock asks.

“Yeah,” Crowley says. “You don’t seem very surprised.”

“I always knew you and Brother Francis, sorry, uh, Aziraphale, weren’t like other people,” Warlock admits. “This explained so much, you have no idea.”

Crowley smiles, and he says, “We’re good then?”

Warlock raises an incredulous eyebrow. “_Of course_ we’re good,” he says. “You both raised me more than my parents.”

“You still want me in your life?” Crowley asks. He tries to make it sound less small, but he isn’t sure he succeeds.

“Hell yes,” Warlock says. “And Aziraphale too, I think. I’d like to meet him. His teeth aren’t actually like _that… _are they?”

“No, absolutely not,” Crowley says. “He wanted to teach you not to judge people based off their attractiveness and physical beauty, and he intentionally chose his disguise like that. Did it work?”

Warlock shrugs. “I mean, he asked me to befriend the slugs, too. You both are weird.”

Crowley smirks.

-

“Do you want dessert here, or should I pay up?” Crowley asks.

“We can leave,” Warlock says softly. “Uh, Nanny?”

“Yes, Hellspawn?”

“You won’t leave me again, will you?” Warlock asks, and he’s aware that he sounds much younger than 14.

“I’ll do whatever’s in my power to stay,” Crowley says, and Warlock can tell that he means it. “I promise.”

“Good,” Warlock says, and he smiles. “Arcade, then?”

Crowley looks up from where he’s fidgeting with his wallet. “Arcade. You’ll teach your old Nanny how to operate the machines, won’t you?”

Warlock rolls his eyes. “I bet you had a hand in creating half these games.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong,” Crowley says, leaving some miracled money and a generous tip. “Now. Shall we?”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, good omens tumblr blog's @ botanicallycrowley so if you want to send anons, go for it! and my fandom twitter's @ gothzabini so. feel free to hmu if you want!! 
> 
> thank you to everyone for all the support & love you've given this series so far - i'm genuinely so grateful, and so humbled by how many of you find this meaningful. take care, everyone <3


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